


God Is In The Details

by elvisqueso



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Architects & Photographers, M/M, rating may change in later chapters if it gets sexy on me, which it probably will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvisqueso/pseuds/elvisqueso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal AU - Hannibal is an architect and Will is an architectural photographer.</p><p>Title is a quote from Ludwig Mies van der Rohe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Art for Art’s Sake: A Philosophy for the Well-Fed

**Art for Art’s Sake: A Philosophy for the Well-Fed**

**“** _Form follows function - that has been misunderstood. Form and function should be one, joined in a spiritual union.” - Frank Lloyd Wright, Architect_

Will Graham ran around the building three times in the early morning.  The sun was just starting to peek over the tree-line, and the mist curled up the pale brick of the walls.  Will stopped at a spot between the sun and the building and lowered his belly to the ground, the cool damp of the grass brushing his elbows.  He aimed his camera and waited.

The sunlight filtered through the haze in glowing billows against the cascade of blocks, descending from the hill like a rockslide in freeze-frame.  Will held his breath and saw the intent, felt the serenity in the scene.  For a moment, he was the architect, seeing in his mind’s eye the beauty of nature and the calm of a spring morning; he desired so very strongly that the house be seen this way; felt this way by the occupant when he steps out for an early jog, or even just by the creatures in the trees themselves.  Just so long as the image in his head could exist, that would be enough.  “This is what I intended them to see,” Will whispered to himself, “This is my design.”

He exhaled and took his shots.

~////~

“Graham!”  Jack Crawford’s voice bellowed through the hallways of Harris-Blessing.  Even from the confines of his office, he was hard to ignore. “Are those prints done yet??”

“Getting there, Jack!  Getting there!”  Will stared intensely at the large photo-printer in front of him, as if that would somehow speed up the process.

“Well, get there faster!”

“Try telling the printer, Jack, maybe it’ll listen to you!”  Will knew better than to provoke Crawford, but there was security in knowing Katz and Price were also in the room to absorb the heat should it come.  “Zeller, how’s the portfolio coming?”  Zeller poked his head into the doorway:

“Well, considering I’m doing it all myself, it’s coming on just dandy.”  He threw a dirty look at the other two assistants before darting back to the studio.

The prints were finished just in time for Zeller to put together the portfolio and hand it over to Crawford as the architects who had ordered them entered the building.  Jack welcomed the clients warmly and led them to his office to go over the photos.  Will allowed himself to finally exhale and sink into the spare couch in the back room amid the scent of paper and color inks.  He opened his eyes to a warm dryness in the air and admired the way dust filtered through the sparse light beams.  Katz slumped down next to him and let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Maaannnn, that was clooooossseeeee!”  She groaned.

“Dangerously close,” Will concurred.

“You might say…”

“Don’t.”

“We were in the-,”

“I swear to God, Katz,”

“DANGER ZONE??”

“Go sit in the corner, Bev, and think about what you just did.”

Before she could retort, Price popped his head through the doorway.  “Will,” he said, “Jack wants to see you in his office.” With that he retreated to the studio.  Katz gave Will a sympathetic smile before following Price out.  Will tried to smile in return but he could barely manage a smirk; a meeting with Jack Crawford in his office could go one of three ways:

1\. You have made a grave error and the client has been dissatisfied.  Collect your things and go.

2.  You have made a grave error and Jack Crawford has been dissatisfied.  Collect your things and go.

3.  You have made a grave error and Jack is going to ball you out for it, very loudly, and for a very long time.  Collect your things and get back to work.

There was a fourth possibility that Will hadn’t counted upon.

“Hello, Will.  Please, sit down.”  Jack motioned for Will to sit at the empty chair across from himself.  “I’m sure you’re anxious to know why I called you here.”

“Well, visits to your office have a reputation to them.  Anxiety would be the only natural response.”  Will made a smile like a grimace.  Jack chose to ignore it.

“I called you here, Will, because one of the biggest architectural journals has requested your work for an important commemorative issue.  ‘A decade in architecture’ or something like that.”  Will’s eyebrows raised and he blinked.

“Okay,” he said, “Fine.  Um, good.” There had to be a catch here somewhere, otherwise Jack wouldn’t have called him into his office.  He waited in silence for Jack to drop a shell.

“You’ll be working for Freddie Lounds on this.”

Boom.

“Jack, please tell me you’re joking.”

“It’s her assignment.  She calls the shots on this one.  You’ll shoot what she tells you, and when, and you will get your prints in _on time_.”  Jack had Will fixed in a look that said ‘or else.’  Will groaned and ran a hand through his hair.  Freddie Lounds was the bottom feeder of architectural journalism.  Her critiques were always more about the architect than the building, splayed out like a gossip column among the pages of the Architectural Journal; a mockery of the field in Will’s view.

Suffice to say, he thought little of the arrangement.

“And you can’t send anyone else on this, Jack?” Will pleaded, “What about Bloom?  She’d do just as well as I.”

“That’s not entirely true, Will, and you know that.  No other photographer has managed to capture these buildings the way you do and it’s because they don’t think about buildings the way you do.  You think like an architect, Will.  Everybody else thinks like a photographer.”

“Well, the pay better be damn good, and that’s all I have to say about it.”  Will stood up to leave and Crawford stood with him.  “I presume I’ll be getting a call from Lounds within the next few days?”

“Yes.  And Zeller, Price and Katz will be at your disposal, as always.”

“Right.”

“And Will,”

“Yes?”

“Good work.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

With that, Will left.

~////~

Will received a call at 7 o’clock in the morning two days after his conversation with Crawford.  He stumbled from his bed, stepping between his plethora of sleeping strays to pick up the phone, more to cease the blaring ring than to talk to Freddie Lounds.

“Hello?” His voice was thick and coarse with sleep.  The woman on the other end of the line chirped into the receiver, speaking in that clipped and practiced manner which Will found so repulsive, especially coming from her.  This woman was far too awake for a Thursday morning.

“Good morning, Will Graham.” She said, “I trust you are awake.  We have a lot of work to do.”

“Joy.” He said.  He made his way to his kitchen and pushed back the curtains; the pale, foggy grey of a Virginia morning filtered into the house.  He set about making himself a cup of coffee as she talked at him.

“I’ve just e-mailed you an itinerary of subjects and deadlines.  They should be 12 in total.  Of course, we’ll need a variety of shots of all subjects, as well as a shoot for the architect.  I’ve outlined the dimensions of the prints.” Will grunted in response and wondered idly whether he could get out of the job by dying.  He could almost hear the tight smile on the other end of the line.  “I’ll trust you to work out the schedule, if you are able Mr. Graham.”

“Oh, I’m able.”

“I await your correspondence.  Oh, and Will?”

“What?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, you wouldn’t mind sharing your… _unique_ insights on the architects we interview, would you?  I find it brings my audience a sense of perception when I can present them a person of _interest_ instead of just an architect.  And you have a particular talent at that.”  Will ground his teeth.  There is was; that slimy sensationalism underlying the faux-professionalism of Freddie Lounds.

“This article is about the design of a building and not the private life of the designer, Ms. Lounds.”

“This article is about whatever I choose it to be about, Mr. Graham.”  Will nearly broke the phone in his hands.  “This is about art for the sake of art.  Something the public can appreciate.”

“Art for art’s sake.” Will spat the words like leftover bile.

“We’ll call soon.  Ta-ta, Will.”

The dial tone left a ringing in Will’s ears as he fumed over his coffee.  “Tasteless.” He growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where I'm goin with this...
> 
> Chapter title is from a Frank Lloyd Wright quote:  
> \--"Art for art's sake is a philosophy of the well-fed."
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated.


	2. On Chairs and Skyscrapers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was a man whose emotions played out in his fingertips, elaborated in the hard edges and practical elegance of his designs_

**On Chairs and Skyscrapers**

_“I don’t want to be interesting.  I want to be good.” – Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, Architect_

 

The only sound in the office was the scuff of graphite against onion paper and steel.  Hannibal Lecter’s hands moved with the precise momentum of clockwork; red line here, measured from the floor-plan, shift T-square, measurement line, shift again, lines quick and light, repeating motions.  Within a few minutes, the lines become geometric shapes placed in imaginary depth on the thin, yellow paper.  His face kept a calm mask of serenity, breathing evenly through his nose to keep his strokes steady.  He was a man whose emotions played out in his fingertips, elaborated in the hard edges and practical elegance of his designs. 

His sensitivities protested the post-modern excess and pseudo-industrial concrete that was neither needed, nor desirable.  Rude buildings jutting out over the cityscapes in architectural faux pas to the aged masterpieces of Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier.   He’d grimace at the thought if he wasn’t so absorbed in his task.

There was a knock on his door, and Hannibal paused only for the moment it took to say, “You may enter,” never lifting his eyes from the drawing.  A plump, young intern bustled eagerly through the doorway.

“There’s a call for you, sir.  Line 2.  A journalist of some sort.”  The intern smiled.

“Thank you,” Hannibal delicately placed his pencils on the side of his drafting table and placed the landline to his ear.  His finger hovered over the Line 2 button when he noticed the intern still standing in the doorway, positively vibrating.  “I do appreciate it, Mr…?”

“Franklyn, sir!  Franklyn Froideveaux.”

“Franklyn.  Right.”

“Um, if there is every anything you need…”

“That’s quite alright for now, Franklyn.  I’m sure someone else is currently in need of your vast services.”

“Right.  Um, thank you, Mr. Lecter.  Okay, I’m off…”

“Yes, off you go.”

Once Franklyn had finally edged his way out of the office, Hannibal turned his attention back to the phone.

“Hannibal Lecter speaking.”

“Hello, Mr. Lecter.”

“Freddie Lounds,” that chiming, yet, stinging voice was unmistakable, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was calling to confirm the schedule for the interview and the photo shoot,” she replied casually, “and also, perhaps, to get some preliminary questions out of the way.”

“I do believe we had designated a time and a place for such discussion, Ms. Lounds.  I’d much rather answer all of your questions at once, and officially, if you do not mind.”

“Yes, of course.  This is really just basic stuff.  Name, hometown, etc.”

“Information I am sure you already have.”

“Yes.  And perhaps you could give me a few extra details.  About your former partner?  I heard she was forced to retire –,”

“I believe you heard what you wanted to hear, Ms. Lounds.”  There was a pause and the empty buzz of the phone saturated the danger in Hannibal’s words.  “Now, I hope you’ll forgive me for cutting our conversation short, but I must return to my work.  I look forward to our interview, Ms. Lounds.  _Au revoir_.”   Freddie Lounds bade goodbye, voice strained a little with her frustration.

Hannibal placed the phone back on the receiver and walked over to the wide bay-window framing his view of the city.  He hummed in thought, hands clasped behind his back and considered the sight.

  Within the view was one particular building he knew was designed by an exceptional architect whose career had met its end at the hands of Freddie Lounds’s sensationalism.

Hannibal Lecter had met Garret Jacob Hobbs only once.  On occasion, the Architectural Institute of America hosts its awards balls and design retreats, lectures, parties and meet-and-greets with cocktails and music.  Hobbs had brought his daughter with him to one such event, celebrating the recent completion of a building in Minnesota.  Hannibal had spoken to him then; had been charmed, too, by the sweet Abigail Hobbs who looked at her father with daughterly pride.

“We’re all very relieved it got finished at all,” he had said, “The owner demanded I partner with an engineering firm I had never worked with before.  The whole project had been stuck in a mathematical hell.  The contractors were obstinate.  You’ve probably been there, Mr. Lecter; this thing seemed doomed.  Then the owner got ‘creative’ and well…but no matter.  I won’t say I’m proud of it, but it’s all finished now and I’m damned glad to be rid of it.”

Less than six months later, the building suffered an internal collapse.  A bridge leading over the atrium crumpled under the weight of over a hundred celebrators during the grand opening.  There were 20 deaths and many more other casualties.  The entire matter was brought to court, and the immense puzzle of liability tangled and stumbled over the glossy pages of the Architectural Journal in the words of Freddie Lounds.

Although, when such things occur, there is no one person to blame and all parties pay their fines to the grief of the victims, Freddie Lounds had chosen to create a villain.  And she had chosen Garret Jacob Hobbs, coloring him in her articles as a shrewd and ruthless businessman whose ego had overridden the needs and protests of the saintly owners. 

Hannibal remembered one article in particular.  Somehow, Lounds had acquired the original brochure images taken just weeks before the opening and plastered them over the Journal with sneering critiques on supposed failings in the design.  So scathing were her words and so impressionable the public that after almost two years of trials and court appearances the jury laid the heavy blame of 20 deaths on Garret Jacob Hobbs.

Hobbs killed himself not long afterward.

Hannibal never attended the funeral; he had not known Hobbs well enough to merit a visitation, but he remembered the daughter and had thought, briefly, of what must become of the child with the disgrace of her father hanging heavy like a storm over her head.  He thought it would be interesting to see; how she would bear that weight, where she would go to unburden herself of the shame. 

He wondered how far her daughterly pride could go before it snapped.

~////~

“Okay…okay.  That should do it.  Alright, we’re done for today.  Let’s pack up.”

Zeller stretched with a loud yawn and strutted over to the flood lights in the corner of the room.  “Jeez,” he mumbled, “you’d think a picture of a chair would take less than three hours, but no.”  Will settled the custom chair in question back in its place by the hearth of the large foyer, which served as their studio for the day.  He smoothed his hand over the deep brown veneer, following along gentle curves meant to caress the body.  Ergonomic.  Anatomical.

“A chair is a very difficult object, Brian,” he said, “A skyscraper is almost easier.”

“Is that why Chippendale is so famous?” Zeller huffed and continued on with the take-down, sheathing light stands and folding snoots back into flat squares.  As assistants went, Brian Zeller was more competent than most, and Will appreciated that about him.  His eye for detail when it came to the lighting and placement of objects within a frame just about made up for his arrogance and occasional lame joke.

They were just about done loading the equipment into Zeller’s van when Will’s cellphone blared the first few bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.  Heaving a sigh, Will answered:

“Yes, Ms. Lounds, we are right on schedule.  We’ve finished shooting Mr. Gideon’s furniture and later this week we have the Madchen building.  You’ll have the prints on time.”

“Hello, Will.  Glad to know.  One teensy, tiny request: if you wouldn’t mind moving up the Madchen shoot, oh, two days?  I’d like to start the interviews as soon as possible.” 

If Zeller hadn’t been around for the last few months to understand the pattern of Will’s conversations with Lounds, he probably wouldn’t have known to lift the two coffee mugs off the top of the van before Will slammed his fist into it.  As it was, Zeller could maneuver through the routine of these calls – which were, unfortunately, quite often – with relative ease; yet another quality Will was inwardly grateful for.

“For God’s sake, Lounds, you can’t put these things on a fucking stopwatch!”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I already have the building cleared for a shoot on Saturday.  I can’t move it up to Thursday, I’d have to restructure the entire week!”

“I’m sure you can improvise, Will.  I’ll call soon to confirm the schedule change and, for course, I’ll expect the prints for that building two days earlier.  Thank you so much, Will, you’re a doll.  Ta-tah!”  Freddie Lounds hung up on Will, just as she had at the end of every single one of their phone calls over the previous months.

“God damn it,” Will gritted through his teeth, “God damn Freddie Lounds.  God damn this article, and God damn the fucking Board of the Architectural Journal!”

Will would have been upset with Zeller for laughing then if he hadn’t been so angry at Lounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aslkfaslkdfasdkjf you people are so good to me  
> Thank you for the kind words and the Kudos! I was is such a good mood over it all I posted this chapter earlier than I planned to!  
> I'll see if I can get Chapter 3 out soon, though I'm not far along with it yet
> 
> Chapter title is from a Ludwig Mies van der Rohe quote:  
> \--"A chair is a very difficult object. A skyscraper is almost easier. That is why Chippendale is famous."
> 
> As always, comments and constrictive criticisms are welcome and appreciated


	3. Space, Light, and Order

**Space, Light and Order**

_“Space and light and order. Those are the things that men need just as much as they need bread or a place to sleep.” – Le Corbusier, Architect_

The LDM DesignGroup offices and studios were located in the top two floors of an old building from an early wave of modernistic design; the structure was glass and steel, a skeleton with only some accents of red marble paneling.  It was an imposing structure, pillars canopying the sidewalk, demanding the attention of every passer-by.  It was a building which refused to be ignored, a minimalist version of the Tower of Babel, trying to stretch into the Heavens.

Will glanced sparingly at the tall red pillars and black steel railings drawn down in venetian style on the balconies as he heaved heavy bags of lighting equipment towards the elevators.  These buildings were erected like monuments in a time when Man could afford arrogance in His art.  Will read far too much in their details; portraits of greatness in wide metal panes and concrete, and the obsession with control in the furniture, leather-bound and black references to Mies, set tall amid open atriums and long rectangular re-imaginings of oculi. 

It made it hard to breathe, and, at the same time, was like a rush of someone else’s breath in his lungs.  Will knew that even later that night as he lay in bed, he would still be able to hear the words of the architect behind his eyes:  _This is my gift to you,_ the voice would say, _The gift of my greatness to the common Man; the gift of my design._

It was this connection with the building and its creator that made meeting the architects so difficult for Will.  Through the various aspects of their craft Will knew more about these people than they probably knew themselves; and a knowledge so intimate confused Will’s perception of his self, of what was his and what wasn’t.  It wasn’t uncommon for Will to accrue anxiety at the news that a building he had photographed was to be renovated, changed, or demolished.

It wasn’t uncommon for Will to feel guilt when a building he had photographed failed.

Beverly Katz lugged two duffel bags full of lighting equipment along just a step behind Will, _oof_ -ing when they made it to the elevator and could settle a bit on the ride up.  Since Lounds insisted on pushing up the interview at LDM, Will had sent Zeller and Price to finish shooting the Madchen building for him.  He had outlined what shots he needed by drawing them out on lined legal paper and writing lighting notes for the two assistants, knowing they would follow Will’s instructions to the letter; Will worried anyway, of course.  He would have preferred to send Katz as well just to have her good sense schooling the others, but he needed her with him for the interview shoots; not just because she was a good assistant and usually required little direction, but because she was an excellent social buffer and he felt more comfortable dealing with these people he knew vicariously through their work with a friend in the room.

“Why did they have to put the elevators all the way on the other side of the lobby?” Katz groaned as she stretched her back and leaned against the bronze railing, “It’s inhuman, I tell you.  Inhuman.”

“It’s to force you to notice the lobby.”  Will said, “God forbid you ignore the marble flooring.”

“I outsmarted them, then.  I was too busy trying not to drop my shit to notice anything else.”

“I’m in awe of you, Katz.”

“As you should be.”

The elevator slowed to a stop at the top floor.  Beverly huffed comically as they lifted the bags and carried them out into the carpeted foyer where they were greeted by a receptionist.

“Mr. Lecter will be expecting you.  Please, follow me.”

As they followed the receptionist through one of the studio’s and down a short, carpeted hall, Will couldn’t help looking and reading the projects being made.  LDM was one of the few firms still making hand-made models of their buildings; most other firms using AutoCAD image software or some similar program.  Piles of matte board and foam-core piled high on drafting tables and overflowed the trashcans.  Exacto-knives lay about the place, almost inviting some careless intern to slice their finger on them.

They came to a pair of large wooden doors, dark and heavy in the wall.  The receptionist rapped her knuckles against the wood and waited for the call to enter.  The voice that answered was thick and accented and surprisingly close to what Will had imagined the man would sound like.

The receptionist opened the doors wide, revealing a spacious office studio, smartly furnished with a wide desk and mid-century modern lounge set centered around a long coffee table, and lit almost entirely by the daylight from the large bay window.  Hannibal Lecter stood up from behind his desk, greeting them with a gracious gesture with his hand.  Although the window was facing North, and so there was no direct sunlight, he was almost impossible to see; a silhouette with the impression of a face and the suggestion of a stature.  Will would have had to squint to see him, but forced himself not to for the sake of courtesy.

“Do forgive me for the mess,” Mr. Lecter started, finally coming from around the desk and becoming visible.  He gestured to the fairly large model of a skyscraper on the coffee table.  “I had a meeting with a client and it was hard enough to move the model in here, none of my associates were willing to try and move it out.”

Will noted the way the man’s suit was subtly pinstriped, and some part of his mind found it humorously appropriate; Lecter was just as cunning in his own designs, always slipping in some element, some detail of the structure that could only be really seen if one were inclined to look for it. 

He reminded Will of those architects from the first modern movement, filled with the need to create something grander, something more functional, but with the sort of elegance in simplicity which meant to expose what he saw as the true grace of a structure.  Like the architects who saw skeletons rising up over the skyline and glass rooms made for peering into just as well as out. 

And yet, there was something of a classicalist in him, which begged to be indulged with pattern detail and pillars to echo temples and other places of worship; each building wanted to be a shrine of itself, and Hannibal Lecter was obliged to let it.

Will thought of this and suddenly felt uneasy.  A hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality.

“Not a problem, Mr. Lecter.  Beverly Katz, assistant.”  Katz squeezed Will’s shoulder lightly as she took Lecter’s hand and shook it.  Then, Lecter’s hand was extended to Will’s own; Will took it, hoping his palm wasn’t too sweaty.

“Will Graham.  Pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s mine, Mr. Graham.  I think we have employed your services once before; Alana Bloom had a conflict and referred us to you, but, I don’t believe we have ever actually met in person.”

“Mmm.  That was a few years ago.  A development in Virginia.”

“I remember it well.  I was very impressed with your work.”  Hannibal remembered seeing the prints for the first time, wondering how this Will Graham knew so exactly what he intended, what art he made.  It was like being seen for the first time – the sensation left Hannibal feeling intoxicated for the entire week, sneaking glances at the portfolio at any spare opportunity.

“Well, the building was already there, Mr. Lecter, I just photographed it.”

Hannibal didn’t miss the subtle way Will Graham avoided eye contact.  Will let his glasses – a pair probably meant only for reading, Hannibal guessed – sit a little low on the bridge of his nose, blocking his pupils which were trained uneasily just below Hannibal’s own eyes.  Will retracted his hand and ran it through his hair.

“Ms. Lounds should be here later this afternoon.” He said, “So, we best get this thing going, if that’s okay.  Katz, set up some lights, we’ll move them once I know what we need.”  Will turned to Lecter and made brief eye contact before averting again, “Alright, let’s get you set up, then.”  Hannibal smiled.

“Where would you like me?”

~////~

The Art Deco movement, in its prime, had epitomized luxury, industry, and power.  It was aggressively modern, discontent to be merely functional amid the fervor of the Roaring Twenties, erecting skyscrapers cut in geometric symmetry, splashed in bold colors and patterns of hard angles and sunbursts in terracotta.  

Although Mr. Lecter’s own buildings reflected something far from and beyond the century old design, Will couldn’t help but think of it in comparison to the architect’s personality.

“ _La Maison Cubiste_.”  The words came from Hannibal Lecter, clear and apropos of nothing.  Will worried for a moment that the man had read his thoughts.  “Have you ever seen it?”  Will spared a brief glance around for Beverly; he remembered, then, that she had gone off on a coffee run.  Damn.

“Not in person.”  Will said.  He let his eyes linger on the exposure settings for his camera, his fingers fiddling with the controls.

“You have seen it, though.”

“Pictures.  Yeah.”

“What do you see when you look at it?”  Will didn’t want to answer that question.

“An interesting idea.”

“That’s a lie.”

Will started at that.  Hannibal Lecter had caught Will in his gaze and now Will couldn’t look away.  He noticed for the first time the deep maroon color in Lecter’s irises.  “How do you mean?” Will managed to say.

“You see more to a building than just an idea, Will.  I imagine the wide breadth of style and design you have seen over the years have buried themselves into even your dreams.  Now, tell me,” Hannibal Lecter leaned forward, resting his elbows against the joints of his knees,  his fingers pressed together, “What do you see when you look at _La Maison Cubiste_?” 

With the light as it was, the angles in Lecter’s face seemed just as harsh as in any brass statue or carving in sandstone.  Will saw there a vicious kind of curiosity; the kind which took material to roll between its fingers and say to itself: _How may I use this?  In how many ways can I bend this thing to my will?_

Will pressed the shutter-release instead of answering.  The clipping sound from the camera snapped the tension unceremoniously and Will felt a blazing heat creep up his neck and to the tips of his ears for it.  But he dared not look back at the image he had just created of Hannibal Lecter; not as the man stared at him, mouth now slightly agape and eyes hard.  The architect had gone almost completely rigid in his indignation, and Will prayed that Beverly would just hurry up with that damned coffee and rescue him already.

“S-sorry,” Will muttered, “My finger slipped.  We won’t use that one.”

“I should think not.”  Seemingly satisfied with Will’s apology, Lecter relaxed back into his seat.  He smiled again.  “I still expect you to answer my question, though.”

“Not getting off that easy, eh?”

“Never.”

Will sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  “Why are you so interested?”

“I’m curious.”

“About what?”

“About you.”  Will scoffed.  It sounded much louder than he had intended it to be.

“What about me is so fascinating to you?”  Lecter didn’t answer right away; he stood up and walked over to the model of the skyscraper and ran his fingers over the façade.

“I’m not sure yet.”  He stopped and stood next to the tower, a thoughtful expression played on his face.  “Look at this, Mr. Graham.  From over here?”  He pointed to the spot where he was standing.  Will stepped out from behind his camera and placed his feet exactly where Lecter’s had been.  He glanced the model over once and looked out the window.

“Very nice.” He said.

“Now, now, good Will.  Really look.”  Lecter opened a small latch on the side of the model and slid one of the walls away.  Inside was an intricate system of levels, some twenty floors worth of open ceiling, staggered spaciously in the air.  There were long curving bridges connecting the various entrances to the central elevators.  The atrium near what would be the west wall dipped low toward the bay, like passing from a cottage to the beach.  Above that, apartment and office space, versatile and in plenty.  Will could feel Lecter’s breath near his ear.  “Now: are you looking?”

“Yes.”

“What do you see, Will?”

“I see space,” Will said, “Light.  Order.”

“Those things that men need just as much as they need bread or air.”

“Corbusier said that one.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s like a…like an open, vertical city.  A mini metropolis.”

Although Will wasn’t looking at Lecter now, he could just barely hear the man smiling.  “And what do you make of this ‘vertical city?’”

“Practical.”  Will said, finally turning to face Lecter.  “You didn’t design this one.”

“No,  I didn’t.”

“Why do you have a model of it in your office?”

“A favor.”  Lecter said.  “A colleague of mine wanted a model to show his client and I obliged to make one up for him,” he smiled, “for a small fee.”  Will smirked and sat down in one of the chairs.

“Discounts for friends?”

“Discounts for colleagues.” Lecter corrected, setting himself across from Will in one of the armchairs.  “For friends?  No charge and dinner at my place.”

“That fits.”

“You never answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“ _La Maison Cubiste_.”  Will noticed, then, that he had been meeting Lecter’s gaze.  He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers.

“That project,” Will muttered, “Is like ordered chaos.”

“What do you see, Will?”

“I see,” Will’s voice was almost a whisper, “Industry.  Power.”

“Is that all?”

“No.”  Lecter leaned in again, same as before, with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled under his nose.

He opened his mouth to say something but stopped when Beverly walked in through the door, her face pink from the wind as she balanced three coffees in her arms.  “Somebody take these, quick,” she grunted, “Or we’re gonna lose this coffee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I actually updated! This seemed much longer on the Word document...
> 
> Chapter title is from the Le Corbusier quote, also at the beginning of the chapter
> 
> Constructive criticism is appreciated and welcomed, as always.
> 
> [Art Deco](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art_deco) was a radical visual art style originating in the 1910's-20's in France, which then experienced a resurgence in the 1960's. Very pre-WWII, the style is characterized by geometric patterns and symmetry, bold colors and industrial extravagance heavily influenced by modernism. Many examples of the architectural style remain, some notable examples include the Chrysler Building in New York City, and Théâtre des Champs-Élysées in Paris.  
> Remember that one building from Ghostbusters? Art fucking Deco.
> 
> La Maison Cubiste (Cubist House) was an architectural installation for Salon d'Automne in 1912 by Raymond Duchamp-Villion and several other collaborators.  
> [Here's a picture of the exterior](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Raymond_Duchamp_Villon,_La_Maison_Cubiste,_Projet_d%27Hotel_%28Cubist_House%29,_in_Les_Peintres_Cubistes,_Guillaume_Apollinaire,_17_March_1913,_Maison_Figuiers_et_Cie.jpg)


	4. Drawing is Faster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The swift clicking of Freddie Lounds’s heels carried down the hallway and prompted a hush in the conversation; empty cups from Starbucks sat long forgotten on the tables while the lighting equipment lay half-packed. At her knocking, Lecter stood and opened the door, gracious and cordial as always._

**Drawing is Faster**

_“The "styles" are a lie.” – Le Corbusier, Architect_

The swift clicking of Freddie Lounds’s heels carried down the hallway and prompted a hush in the conversation; empty cups from Starbucks sat long forgotten on the tables while the lighting equipment lay half-packed. At her knocking, Lecter stood and opened the door, gracious and cordial as always.

“A pleasure to see you, Ms. Lounds,” he said, taking her handshake, “You have impeccable timing. We were just finished shooting.”

“My photographer is very good about his deadlines, _usually_.” Lounds’s smile was tight and practiced, and she completely ignored the dirty look Will was sending her way. “Would you like any coffee before we get started with the interview?”

“Dear Beverly has already taken care of that for me. But, perhaps it would be appropriate to let them finish packing up before we begin.”

“Nonsense,” Freddie waved a hand dismissively. Hannibal raised a brow slightly, but said nothing. “It’s perfectly fine. We won’t be in their way at all.”

“I would prefer to ask anyway.” Hannibal turned to look at Will and Beverly, still sitting on the chairs by the coffee table. “Will? Beverly?” Will shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He stood and tossed his empty coffee cup into the wastebasket. “My journalist is very good about leaving me to my own job, _usually_.” Lounds opened her mouth to snap back, but a sharp snort from Beverly cut her off. The photographers thanked Lecter for the hospitality and set about tearing down the equipment.

Hannibal Lecter and Freddie Lounds moved two of the chairs over by the large bay window. Lounds less-than-subtly ran her hands over the leather seat, mentally calculating the price of the object. _Oh, dear, we are_ obviou _s Miss Lounds._

Beginning the interview while Graham was still in the room was yet another blatantly obvious move. Graham was a terrible liar, and almost compulsive about his truths. It wouldn’t be particularly difficult for Lounds to pry into the photographer’s mind and find the edges of a man’s personality. Lounds aimed to create caricature, and twist that caricature into a commodity for her to sell. How terribly common of her. Hannibal grinned to himself. Lounds didn’t notice.

Freddie Lounds rummaged through her purse and retrieved a small audio recorder. She checked it and pressed record.

“So, Mr. Lecter, we’re ready to begin.” Lound’s smile stretched her lips over her teeth and Hannibal briefly imagined them as canvases pulled too taut over some sort of steel frame and, in his hand, a knife to slice them off. “One of your more recent endeavors gained some attention in the architecture circle. A book…”

“I contributed some articles on style and the use of isolated space to a series of college textbooks. Hardly an endeavor, Ms. Lounds, and hardly worth any attention outside the lecture hall.”

“You make some very interesting statements in these ‘articles.’”

“Do I?”

“’The ‘styles’ are a lie.’ What did you mean by that, Mr. Lecter? Do you mean to assert some idea of rejecting any consistency or aesthetic distinction in general?”

“Oh, Ms. Lounds, I’m disappointed. You were doing so well with your tact.” Hannibal tsked; the game was over. He went on, “I was quoting another architect in that particular passage. You have conveniently left that credit out. The point was to assert that, although consistent style is inevitable, to conform to a rigid set of rules to work within a specific ‘style’ is not genuine, and a fault to avoid.”

Hannibal couldn’t deny himself the moment to bask in Freddie Lounds’s indignant silence. He grinned, a soft quirk of the lips, “Of course, we could always just read what I wrote instead of having me repeat it verbatim. May we speak of my buildings now?”

Although he didn’t feign to look, Hannibal could hear a stifled snickering from the other end of the room. Lounds, tight lipped, but determined, smiled again.

“Of course, Mr. Lecter,” she said, “That’s what we’re here to do, after all, isn’t it?”

~////~

The cityscape stretching out toward the horizon constructed towers of makeshift stars; illuminated offices and apartments forming artificial constellations against the black sky. Car lights brightened the sleek walls of the buildings briefly in yellows and pale whites and reds. Will stood at the window of his hotel room – one small and efficient with some modicum of taste in the décor, as expected of any Marriot – watching the city and connecting windows like dots, a glass with two-fingers of whisky in his hand.

When he and Katz had finally gotten the chance to escape, bidding their good-byes to the architect and exchanging business cards, Lounds had the gall to ask him right out if _he_ could possibly get another interview with Lecter, _“You know, just for some_ substance _. Help a girl out,_ buddy _?”_

“ _Not your fucking buddy_.” Is what Will _would_ have said. Hannibal had spoken up instead:

“We just had 3 hours’ worth of substance, Ms. Lounds, I wouldn’t think you’d require any more substance after that.”

That seemed to jilt Freddie more effectively than anything Will could have said. As Bev had said later, it’s like the art of burning someone by complimenting them and it’s goddamn brilliant.

No matter how much Lounds had tried to pry afterwards – She had barraged him with questions over the phone, and Katz only just barely managed to save a light stand from getting javelined into the street – Will had nothing to give her; nothing he really wanted to give her, at least.

It was no great secret that Lounds wanted dirt about Lecter’s former partner. Will sneered at the idea; even if he deigned to mention the subject, Hannibal’s answer would have been as vague and meaningless as it was honest.

A part of his mind mused distantly about Hannibal Lecter. A brief flash in his mind of the silhouette seen from across the room, visible but so hard to see; how fitting. He was a man full of questions, to be sure, and a man around which many questions arose. And, even though Hannibal never refused to answer Will’s inquiries, none of his answers really told Will anything about him.

As silly a thing it was to admit: Will was curious.

“God damn,” he breathed, bringing the glass up to his lips.

Will had set his laptop out on the desk in the room, the pictures now finished transferring with a blip-ding from the speakers. Will sat down and started going through the pictures; _no good… no good…no fucking good…decent…decent…no good…keeper…_

He saved copies of the ‘keepers’ in a separate file, easy to find for touch-ups. Thank God for the advent of digital photography and Photoshop.

In the old days, a picture had to be processed in a dark room, the thick smell of chemicals bleaching your scent glands and the red light made you forget that there were other colors in the world. Timing was everything, and chemical paint was carefully applied to brighten some colors.

Now, all that can be done in the warm LED glow of a tablet. No need to rebuild a shoot just because some intern left a pencil in the frame.

Will sipped from his whisky, clicking through picture after picture. Hannibal Lecter captured from all sides; face angular and eyes curiously soft.

The candid shot he had taken during their conversation about _La Maison Cubiste_ appeared on the screen.

“Shit.”

There were all the answers Will ever needed on the subject of Hannibal Lecter.

The light was low-key; irregular. Only half of Hannibal’s face was properly lighted, and the shadows made harsh edges to his nose and cheeks. Will could see the red-pinpricks in his eyes and the slight gape of his lips ready to form a word. Leaning forward as he was, he seemed very much like a panther waiting in the brush, fingers gently touching with the express purpose of assuring neutrality.

It would be easy to get lost in the details here. So easy. Will blinked and rubbed his face with his hand; he moved the picture to its own folder; a secret corner in his hard drive just for Hannibal with a gap in his armor.

A guilty part of him chided, _it’s almost like stealing, in a way_.

The time read 12:37 in bright red. Will knocked back the rest of the whiskey and shut down the laptop. He went to sleep that night walking through the front door of _La Maison Cubiste_.

~////~

“Is this a favor to you, or a favor to the University?”

Morning light spilled into the room between the half-drawn curtains. Blue and white shadows formed on the walls and the generic coffee maker hummed from the bathroom where the only free outlet was.

“It would be a favor to me; and I am doing a favor for the University.”

Will Graham was to catch a plane back to Virginia that afternoon. His suitcase was already mostly packed.

Hannibal Lecter’s voice over the phone was even more velvety and therefore harder to understand, despite the man’s impressive enough diction. Will had to strain his ears to avoid asking him to repeat himself.

“How soon do they need this?”

“There’s no time frame. We’d be at your convenience.”

There were several Frank Lloyd Wright residences owned by institutions, organizations, and universities throughout the United States. They would need to be, as the houses were old and required an upkeep running a ballpark cost of 800,000 to one million dollars a year, depending. Well worth it, in the general opinion.

Will looked at the clock; 9:57 AM, Central time.

“My flight isn’t until four,” Will said, “If you have time, we can hold a small meeting and I can find a spot on my schedule for this.”

Will couldn’t be sure – he hadn’t had his coffee quite yet – but he thought he could _hear_ Hannibal Lecter’s eyes shine in approval over the phone.

“I can do an early lunch appointment. How is Bridgeport at 11 for you?”

“Good here.”

“It’s a date.” Hannibal laughed.

He hung up before Will could think to say anything more than “See you there.”

~////~

The Bridgeport coffeehouse has molded ceilings in classic style above a barista bar and several modest, wood tables. It sits on the corner of 31st and Morgan St., and relies heavily on the light from the large front windows for light.

Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham sat at a table by one of these windows; a few old pictures of Wright’s Affleck house covered the surface of the table between the sandwich wraps and cups of steaming coffee. Lecter explained that the University that owns the building had been needing new interior shots for a while, now; there had been some restoration work, and some of the furniture and original décor had been replicated or repaired.

On several napkins were ink sketches of some of the replicated furniture. “Drawing is faster,” Hannibal had said, “and certainly easier for me.” His hand moved fluidly and in quick movements with the pen.

Hannibal’s idea of casual attire had consisted of a crisp long-sleeve button-down with deep navy slacks. He had rolled the sleeves up to the elbows and his hair was soft, un-gelled, unlike the previous day. Will didn’t think on it any more than he needed to.

“Where did you get that accent?” Will asked at one point, leaning back in his chair and letting the warmth of the coffee seep through the cup and to his hands.

“I was born in Lithuania,” Hannibal said, “But I would guess my accent comes from a few more places. I spent a lot of time in Paris as a young man.”

“ _Ah, et comment les dames de France vous aiment?_ ”*

“ _Un gentilhomme n'aurait jamais dire_.”*

“Is that where the classical bent comes from?”

“You noticed.” He said; not surprised, but clearly genuinely pleased, “It’s likely. Just as likely as the estimate that your French was learned in a bayou.” Will openly laughed.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Glaringly obvious, I’m afraid.”

Will shrugged, welcoming of the succinct honesty he had come to expect from Hannibal Lecter. “You can take the boy out of the bayou, but you can’t take the bayou out of the boy.”

“What took the boy out of the bayou?”

“Work.”

“What kind of work, _cher_?”

“Don’t you start.” Will warned, flicking a wad of napkin at him; Hannibal just grinned gleefully and sipped his coffee. “If you must know: I worked on boat motors; came out to Virginia and had another part-time job working maintenance in an I.M. Pei building. This was probably 15 years ago.” Hannibal whistled in admiration.

“Quite a jump to make; Boat motors to cameras.”

“Not so big, though, when you consider one of the greatest photographers I’ve ever met had started his apprenticeship as a garden boy.”

“Touché.”

There was a slight pause in the conversation then, a comfortable moment as Will considered lending his companion fair warning.

“Lounds is going to smear you in that article she’s writing.”

“I know.”

“You’re not concerned about it, though.”

“I am familiar with Lounds’s style of journalism, so no, I’ve decided not to worry about it.”

“Well, you sound like you know what you’re doing, so I won’t worry either.”

“I’m touched, Will. You were worried for me?”

“I always worry about anyone who comes into contact with that bottom-feeder.”

“I still appreciate the sentiment.”

“Don’t mention it.”

By 2 PM, Will had penciled in a scouting date for the house.

Hannibal offered to pay for their meals and Will offered to pay for Hannibal’s cab fare. Hannibal refused twice before he accepted the offer.

~////~

It’s a curious thing, Love. Love can be seen in the elegant curves descending down a spiral staircase, in the perfect symmetry of a courtyard enclosed by twin buildings. Love can be seen in the detail of a chair sitting, sunlit, in the room it was designed to compliment. Their design. _His_ design. Designed with Love. Will knew this.

What Will also knew, as he watched the buildings shrink down to specks in the plane window, was that he and Hannibal shared a love for an idea. The idea stretched beyond just the steel skeleton of a building, and ran deeper than the ink forming pictures of chairs and mock-ups of rooms on thin napkin paper.

Will had taken those napkins with him, each one folded carefully and placed in a manila folder in his laptop case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximate translation:  
>  _*"Ah, and how did the French girls like you?"_  
>  _*"A gentleman would never say."_  
>  \---  
> I made it. It took like 3 months but I _finally_ updated.
> 
> Chapter title is from the Le Corbusier quote:  
>  \--"I prefer drawing to talking. Drawing is faster, and leaves less room for lies."
> 
> Constructive criticism is, always, accepted and appreciated.  
> \--  
> [The Bridgeport Coffeehouse](http://www.bridgeportcoffeecompany.com/retail/coffeehouse-hours) is a real place! I've never been there, but the interior photographs were too tempting. Thank you, Google.
> 
> [The Affleck House](http://www.ltu.edu/affleck_house/) in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1940 for Gregor and Elizabeth Affleck and their children. The house features slanted, ship-lapped walls and Wrights trademark love of marrying horizontal and vertical planes in dramatic space. The house was one of Wright's [Usonian](http://architecture.about.com/od/franklloydwright/g/usonian.htm) homes, an aspiration of his to create an affordable type of home for the average American. However, Frank being Frank, his design ended up costing too much for middle-class America to afford anyway. Today, it is owned and cared for by Lawrence Technological University, a private University renowned for its architecture and engineering programs.  
> Don't worry, I'll talk more about the Affleck House in the next chapter.  
> \--  
> Other notes:  
> I took some artistic license and put Lecter's design firm in Chicago, IL. It seemed appropriate; it _is_ the Mecca of Architecture, after all.


End file.
